Rescue Me
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Set directly after OOTP. Harry begins yet another miserable summer of being overworked and bullied by the Dursleys. But one fateful afternoon, Dudley goes too far. Rated PG-13 for violence. Sad beginning, squirmy middle, happy ending. Complete! :-)
1. The Dursleys

World's Shortest Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. ;)

Summary: Poor Harry. Every time he goes back to the Dursleys, it just seems to get worse and worse for him. This is a "summer after fifth year" story.

Rating: PG-13 for graphic violence.

Note: This tale picks up right where OOTP left off. Please, PLEASE have finished "Order of the Phoenix" before reading this. I don't want to get any angry e-mails saying "You ruined the end!!!"

Still here? Excellent! On you go. :D

**RESCUE ME **

Part One: The Dursleys

The flowers were wilting on Privet Drive. Waves of heat bounced off the perfectly manicured lawns, turning them brown and brittle. The residents were hunkered down inside their air-conditioned houses, sitting in front of their television sets and sipping lemonade for relief.

And yet, one lonely little figure could be seen, just outside number 4. Harry Potter gave a small grunt and shoved the lawn mower with one hand, wiping sweat off his face with the other. He tugged at his broad-brimmed work hat to position it more comfortably and trudged along. It was a sweltering day in mid-July, and Harry was spending it outside doing chores. He had been home from Hogwarts for three weeks.

Already he'd managed to irritate his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon by simply existing, and locked horns (so to speak) with his portly cousin Dudley several times. Harry winced a little as a muscle tweaked in his side. Dudley's aim was getting a lot better. Harry had always been a good ducker, a good dodger, but there was no way around Dudley now.

Between his cousin's bulky body and large, powerful fists, he had to keep clear of him as much as possible, or if it came down to it, challenge him where there was plenty of room to maneuver. Besides honing his boxing skills, Dudley had started that daft American "Atkins" diet (much to Harry's dismay and his Aunt Petunia's delight) and was now consuming dangerously amounts of meat, making him heavier than ever.

"_We'll see you soon, mate. Really soon, Harry, we promise."_ Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's words echoed in his head. They were all he had to hold on to. He'd refused to think about Sirius because it was too painful, so he concentrated on his living friends instead. It was really the only happy thing he had to think about, because after old Mad Eye Moody had insisted Harry be treated decently for a change and threatened Uncle Vernon on the platform a few weeks ago, a series of rather unpleasant things had happened.

The first thing occurred as soon as they got home. The car ride was stony and silent. Harry lugged his trunk inside, and Uncle Vernon had smiled at him, _smiled_ at him, and motioned to the kitchen table. Harry sat down warily. Something was up, and knowing Uncle Vernon, it couldn't be good.

"Take some paper and pencil out of that trunk of yours."

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Just do it," Uncle Vernon snapped.

"All right, all right," Harry muttered, getting up and going over to his trunk, which he had dragged into the hallway. He pulled it open and dug around in it, pulling out what he needed. "And it's called parchment and quill, by the way," he said over his shoulder.

"Whatever."

Harry sat down at the table again with a decent size sheet of parchment, his quill, and a pot of ink. He crossed his arms and stared at his uncle. "Well, what now?"

He received a bitter smile. "Now," Uncle Vernon said, leaning in dangerously close and making Harry lean back in his chair, "You will write exactly what I say."

Harry blinked at him. "Pardon?"

The knife was against the tip of his narrow nose before he knew what was going on, and he blinked in disbelief. The image tumbled over in his head for a few moments until he realized that yes, that was really Uncle Vernon in front of him, and yes, Uncle Vernon was indeed holding a chef's knife to his face.

Harry knew he wasn't allowed to use magic out of school, and his wand was in his trunk anyway. He swallowed hard. Nervously he dipped his quill in ink and shakily put the tip to the parchment.

And for the next half hour, he wrote what Uncle Vernon dictated: line after line of lies. "I am fine. Hope you are getting along okay." "Everything is going smoothly here. There are no problems." "They are treating me well." Harry dated each one differently as he was directed, although his hand was not steady and the corners of his eyes were getting damp with rage. He ripped the parchment into at least sixty separate notes, all of which were so bland they could be delivered to anyone who knew him, and left them on the kitchen table.

His uncle shoved him into a trot. He gloomily tromped upstairs into his room and Vernon closed the door behind him with a savage slam. Harry's insides turned over as he heard the lock click into place.

"And damned if you're getting near that ruddy owl for the entire vacation!"

Hedwig was screeching down in the kitchen, obviously not pleased that she had been left on the counter instead of being brought up to Harry's room. Harry, for his part, was furious. He walked around his small bedroom, muttering to himself and kicking at any of Dudley's broken toys he could reach.

How could he answer letters from Ron and Hermione? How could he convey to the Order that he'd been forced to scribble that nonsense at knifepoint? That undoubtedly, he was _not _going to be treated well? Because Harry had far too much experience with the Dursleys, and he knew one thing about his family: such unpleasant beginnings couldn't possibly lead to anything better. In fact, it usually went downhill from here.

All his Hogwarts stuff was still downstairs, and he could hear the heavy scraping sounds of Uncle Vernon dragging his trunk into his old cupboard. He now officially had no chance of doing his homework or communicating with his world. With no wand, no owl, and no way to write anything, he sat down on the bed. Unfortunately, Dudley had used it as a trampoline during the Christmas holidays, and the moment Harry sat down the whole thing collapsed underneath him, causing an enormous crash. Harry stared at the ceiling and sighed.

Aunt Petunia thought it was bad enough having "that filthy owl" in the house and didn't see fit to let Harry near her, lest he try something, so Harry wasn't allowed out of his room for the rest of the day. To compound his problems, his aunt forgot to shove any food through the slot on the door, so it was midnight before Harry finally fell asleep, arms gripped tightly around his middle, gritting his teeth against the hunger and anger welling up inside him.

It was time for drastic measures. The next morning he picked the lock on his room and came down to breakfast. That so irritated his aunt and uncle that they bodily thrown him out of the house and insisted he make himself useful round the yard. And so he could be seen that second day, mowing the lawn at high noon, drenched in sweat, still hungry since all he'd snagged to eat was a bit of toast and orange juice, and aching from a blow that Dudley had gotten off with his Smeltings stick.

This summer was looking even more dreadful than all the other summers put together. And as the days crawled by, Harry wasn't sure which was worse – working outside in the heat, or staying inside and dealing with the Dursleys.

* * *

Harry had tanned a bit after twenty days spent outside, doing hard labor as the Dursleys' de facto gardener. The result of his efforts so far was impressive, because his relatives' lawn had never looked so good. And today at four o'clock, a sense of peace had settled over number 4. Dudley was lounging about inside playing video games and Aunt Petunia had dragged Uncle Vernon to a home store to look for a new refrigerator. (Dudley had demanded a second one.)

Harry was taking a short break from pruning the rose bushes, sitting on a swing underneath a canopy that the Dursleys had installed on the side of their house, right outside the kitchen window. Uncle Vernon had been so proud of the thing when he'd first bought it that they'd actually had a small yard party to commemorate it. (Harry had only heard about the party. He'd been sent to stay with Mrs. Figg, the batty old cat-lady down the lane.) Now, because it was no longer new and special, it had fallen into disuse. It was grungy and dusty, but Harry didn't care, because it was comfortable and shaded.

Harry took off his work hat and his round glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and relaxed for a moment. He'd grown a few inches over the last school year, and his shoulders had broadened, although he was still rather skinny. His untidy black hair had bushed out quite a bit and he had a feeling someone would be yelling at him to get a haircut soon. He wiggled his toes in his shabby thongs, ran his slim, long fingers through his hair to shake out some of the dust, cracked his knuckles, and absently rubbed his scar, which had been throbbing for about half an hour now. Harry was so used to these flare-ups, Voldemort being back and all, that he hardly acknowledged them anymore. He tipped his head back against the side of the house and closed his eyes. A pleasant breeze blew across his face, and he sighed in contentment.

There was a creak above him, like a window being opened. Harry ignored it. Unfortunately, the noise was followed by two large, powerful arms that grabbed him by the shoulders, hoisted him up bodily through the window, and dragged him painfully over the sill.

This got Harry's attention. He cursed and flailed, his sandals went flying, and before he knew what was properly going on, he had been dumped on the kitchen floor, having been scraped over the sink. He stared dazedly up at Dudley, who was standing over him with crossed arms and an expression not unlike that of a scientist examining an insect that could just as easily be squashed as experimented on. Harry realized two things right away.

One: Dudley was bored.

Two: Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were out.

That was a recipe for disaster if he ever thought of one, for Dudley could now be even more horrid than usual. He jumped up and ran for it, ducking Dudley's massive arm, sprinted out of the kitchen barefoot and thumped down the carpeted hallway. His heart was pounding in time with Dudley's thundering footsteps behind him, and Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at his cousin's dim-witted chuckling.

It was apparent that Dudley, not jaunting about with his idiotic friends today, and had fallen back on his primary school pastime of Harry-hunting. But his target was tough and wiry, rounding on sixteen, and not having any of it. Harry bounded up the stairs two at a time and sprinted for his room. Perhaps barricading himself would prevent a black eye. After working in the yard all day, he just was too tired to fight.

He burst into his room a half a meter ahead of his cousin, slammed the door on him, and locked it. There were several house-shaking bumps against the door as Dudley howled and tried to get in. Harry's eyes darted to his window. An escape! While Dudley was busy with the door (which was old and battered and looked like it would give way any second), Harry ran over and opened the frame.

It was a small window, but Harry could slip through easily. The jump, on the other hand, looked most unpleasant. It was about twenty feet to the ground. But a foot to his right, Harry saw a rain pipe running against the side of the house. If he could shimmy down that, he'd be safe.

There was an angry roar and another whack against the door. It would give any moment now. Harry wiggled through the window, feet first, until he was hanging by one hand, then reached over like a monkey and made a successful grab for the pipe. He shimmied down to the ground, landed gently in a flower bed, stepped off the begonias and backed onto the grass.

Above him he heard a door burst off its hinges and a few seconds later, Dudley's pudgy, enraged face appeared in his bedroom window, turning red and purple under his thick blond hair as he tried to mimic Harry's maneuver, except he was so stupid that he was trying to get out the window head first. He got his head and shoulders through, but that was about it.

Harry stood there, arms crossed, feeling quite smug. He was quickly approaching giddy, because it seemed that not only was Dudley too fat to fit, he appeared to be stuck in the window-frame. With a roar of rage, Dudley tried to wiggle, and only lodged himself in worse.

Harry made no attempt to contain himself now. This was the most hilarious thing he'd seen happen to Dudley since Fred and George had given him that Ton-Tongue Toffee two years ago. So in a fit of excitement, he pulled mad faces, cursed his cousin out loudly, and rounded off his revenge by howling with laughter until he got the hiccoughs. Most of this happened over Dudley yelling for help, but Harry was enjoying himself far too much to care.

He finally trotted away, still giggling and wiping tears of glee from his eyes, and climbed back through the open kitchen window into the house. Some possibilities had opened up to him, now. And for the next two hours, while Dudley was stuck yowling at an empty street (everyone on Privet Drive worked a perfectly normal 9 to 5 job and most of the neighbors had gone on holiday anyhow), Harry felt on top of the world. He took a cool refreshing shower, put on some clean clothes, and finally hoisted his trunk up the stairs and into his bedroom closet, all the while making sarcastic comments about Dudley's fat arse, as that was what was facing him. Dudley flailed his legs madly and called Harry something unrepeatable.

Harry just laughed it off. For once, his great lump of a cousin was out of the way and he could do whatever he liked. The first thought that struck him was to firmly paddle Dudley while he couldn't do anything, but Harry decided his time was better spent doing other things, like eating.

So he left Dudley firmly stuck in the window, and walked out of his room's now empty doorway. Uncle Vernon was not going to be pleased when he saw that door, and Harry knew he'd probably be blamed for it, but the worry blew over like a summer breeze. Delighting in his freedom, he slid down the stair banister, slipped into the kitchen and took a few gulps of a fizzy drink while he made himself a sandwich. Finally, with food in one hand and drink in the other, he ate leisurely and wandered through the cool house.

Of course, as soon as he had enough food in him to think clearly, he remembered his poor snowy owl.

"Hedwig?!"

He yelled this as loud as he could, and then listened. With the house devoid of Uncle Vernon bellowing about drills and Aunt Petunia screeching about Mrs. Next-Door, it was easy to ignore Dudley and hear better.

There was a faint cooing noise coming from up above him. The attic! Of course! He climbed the stairs, left his drink at the top, finished the last crumb of his sandwich, wiped off his hands and ran for the trap ceiling on the second floor.

"Don't you let her out!" he heard Dudley yelling from his bedroom. "I'll tell Dad and he'll knock the stuffing out of you! That thing is so vile ..."

"Nobody asked _your_ bloody opinion!" Harry roared back, jumping up and swiping at the cord that hung down from the ceiling. "Hang on, Hedwig, I'm coming!"

He jumped high enough to grab the cord and firm yank brought down the collapsible staircase. Harry dashed up the wooden steps into the dark attic. Hedwig was in her cage in one corner, hooting feebly. She looked like she'd been on a lot of long journeys, and Harry realized she had. The Order was, after all, in London, and she'd probably delivered quite a few of the little lies he'd written in the past three weeks. He ran over and opened the cage, which Uncle Vernon had closed with a bit of twine. Hedwig came flapping out and settled herself on Harry's shoulder, looking a bit wobbly. He rubbed her beak gently.

"Poor girl," he murmured. "Let's get you something to eat, eh? I think I have some owl treats in my trunk."

Hedwig hooted softly. Harry picked up her cage and threaded his way back down the collapsible staircase, Hedwig still on his shoulder. She fluffed her feathers experimentally. But just as Harry had reached the second-floor landing outside his bedroom, he heard a funny buzzing in his ears. It was the buzz of silence. Dudley, for some reason or another, had gone completely quiet.

A silent Dudley was not good. Hedwig squeezed his shoulder slightly with her talons, and Harry felt himself tense up as he walked slowly back to his room. He stood in front of his empty doorway and stared. The window over his bed was empty. No Dudley. It occurred to him that perhaps his fat cousin had finally squished himself all the way through, fallen headfirst onto the lawn outside and was dead as a doornail ... but that was too much to hope for.

A fist the size of a softball flew out of nowhere and caught Harry in the eye, causing him to stumble back and let off a hefty curse. Hedwig shrieked as she was knocked off his shoulder. She flapped about and finally perched on the downstairs chandelier, terrified for her wizard and screeching uselessly.

Harry wondered fleetingly how Dudley had gotten out of the window frame, but his train of thought was derailed by Dudley charging out from where he'd been hiding just to the left of the door and punching Harry again, this time in the stomach.

Harry didn't need a punch to the stomach – he'd just eaten. Winded, now slightly nauseous, and altogether incensed, he pulled back on the continent somewhere and punched Dudley in the face. Dudley screamed in pain. Pulling up his fat, powerful leg, he kicked Harry in the right hip, sending him careening into the nearest wall.

Harry stumbled up, shook off the blow, limped forward, and threw all of his weight into a punch that he delivered to Dudley's midsection. It was a bit like fighting with a fearsome pudding. His bony fist sank into the gloopy fat of Dudley's belly and didn't seem to reach any organs at all.

That didn't mean Dudley appreciated this. He reached out, grabbed Harry's neck, and squeezed. Harry, desperate and gagging, fell to his knees and grabbed something that felt rather Snitch-like. He heard a high-pitched squeal and a small suck-in of air, and finally looked at his hand with a grim smile. His cousin had him around the neck, but he'd just caught Dudley by the balls.

Both were panting and in pain. Hedwig was making an impressive amount of noise. Tyres squealed outside. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were home, and they'd walk in at any moment. Harry and Dudley looked at each other.

"Well?" said Harry. His voice was a bit tight, due to his cousin's massive hands around his throat and the pain in his hip, which had begun to throb its way through his haze of adrenaline.

"Well what?" said Dudley. His voice was a bit shaky, for obvious reasons.

"I say we call it a draw and let go."

It took Dudley a moment to think about this. _Hmm. Strangle my cousin, or retain my ability to bear children?_ Harry could almost see the lonely gear creaking in Dudley's fat head. Finally the nod came.

"Right then," Harry wheezed. "Three, two, one."

And they both let go. Dudley backed away, one hand over his privates, and Harry staggered back, trying to keep the weight off his right leg, massaging his neck, and taking in a few gulps of air. He was at the top of the staircase, seeing stars and cursing mentally because he was sure Dudley had dislocated his leg with that kick, hoping against hope that his idiot cousin would hear his parents coming in and not try anything else.

There was a sudden movement to his left. All Harry would be able to recall of this later would be the terrible blow to his ear where Dudley had punched him, knocking his head into the wall. He caught only part of Dudley saying, "Rule number one in boxing! Never let your guard down!"

The other bits of it, with Dudley punching him in the ribs twice, bursting his nose, slamming him, arm first, into the banister and finally throwing him down the stairs would only be remembered by Hedwig, who watched the whole horrible thing from her perch on the chandelier.

Harry tumbled down the stairs like a rag doll, limbs flailing in every direction, a bit of a stunned look on his face, and hit the downstairs landing on his back with a sickening thud. Blood started to dribble from his nose and his big green eyes fluttered shut.

Dudley, feeling triumphant at getting out of that window (he'd exhaled enough to wiggle himself out backwards) and kicking his cousin around, gave another kick to the first thing he saw: a half-full soda can that had been left at the top of the stairs. It bounced down the staircase, dribbling on the carpet all the way, and finally came to rest on poor Harry, where it poured the rest of its contents onto the crotch of his ill-fitting jeans and rolled off onto the floor.

The door opened and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia walked in. Uncle Vernon stared. Aunt Petunia screamed. Harry was, after all, their responsibility. They both looked up and saw Dudley, who quickly rearranged the rather demonic expression on his face into a mask of shock.

"Diddydums, what happened?" Petunia shrieked.

"He fell!" Dudley yelled. "He just, er, lost his balance and fell!"

Uncle Vernon was squatting over Harry, observing the boy's nosebleed and sneering in disgust at his apparent loss of bladder control. Petunia looked down at him too, her face pale and drawn. In all honesty, even to her dull-around-Dudley eyes, Harry did not look like he'd just fallen. He looked like he'd been beaten senseless.

"Vernon, he's bleeding! What are we going to do?"

Mr. Dursley fixed his wife with a grim stare. "Well, Petunia, nobody likes the boy, but ... we can't have a death on our hands. Get a blanket."

"What?"

"Get a blanket!"

Petunia was petrified, but she did as her husband asked. She went and grabbed an old, ragged blanket from the bottom of the linen closet and came hurrying back. Dudley was peering down at Harry. She shooed him aside and handed the blanket to Vernon, who wrapped his nephew in it and picked him up.

"Can't have blood on the carpet," Vernon said stiffly. "You two stay here."

And he carried Harry through the door. Hedwig seized her chance for escape and flew through the doorway noiselessly after Vernon, settling herself down in a tree next to the house. She kept her amber eyes on the proceedings as he put Harry (none too gently) into his shiny car, waddled around to the driver's side and got in. Moments later the car roared to life and took off at an alarming speed, spewing gravel down Privet Drive. Petunia and Dudley stared out the window.

Petunia was in shock. Of course she didn't like her sister's son, not even a bit, but to see him bleeding on her floor made a lump rise in her throat. She made sure her precious boy didn't see it. She didn't want to upset Dudley any more than was necessary.

Dudley was doing a good impression of shock while trying to think up the rest of his cover story. As big of a git as he was, he at least had some sense of self-preservation. He was quite sure his parents would do nothing if they found out, since they hated Harry as much as he did. But a sudden squirmy feeling in his massive belly accompanied the most unpleasant thought that if any wizards discovered what really happened to his cousin, something very magical and very terrible would befall him. He started to sweat.

And Hedwig swooped along after the car as it headed for the nearest city, staying as low as she dared. Dusk fell, but she could just make out the bundle of blankets in the back seat, although she was concentrating on the black sedan so thoroughly that she was almost seen by a crowd of Muggles and narrowly missed hitting a few lampposts.

Where, she thought angrily, where was that miserable bastard going with her boy?

To be continued ...


	2. The Hospital

This is for ESP and Nickel Nerd, my two reviewers. You guys rock!

Nickel Nerd: Glad you likey. :D Here is your update.

ESP: Thanks for giving my story a chance. Hopefully it won't disappoint and shatter you. LOL

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Part Two: The Hospital

A doctor and three nurses at St. Anthony's Hospital were outside on their break. The four of them were hanging around under the awning near the Emergency doors, staring dully out at the twilight and talking quietly. The night was calm, the air balmy. But the peace was quickly shattered by the screech of tires. A car stopped suddenly, perhaps twenty feet from them, and then took off again, leaving behind a bundle of rags. The emergency workers all looked at each other for a moment, and one nurse ran over to have a look. The others watched her go, waiting for a reaction.

"Get a gurney!" she screamed, bending over the still form on the pavement. "Young man, perhaps fourteen! He's bleeding everywhere! Did anyone see the car?"

The doors to the emergency department burst open, and for the next twenty minutes it was pandemonium. Harry was fortunate in that he was one of the only trauma patients that night, because St. Anthony's was right in the middle of the city. This meant their Emergency was the typical under-funded city hospital department, and it was staffed by overworked Muggles who were attempting to earn a living at the curious Muggle occupation of medicine, which, as any wizard will tell you, is not half as effective as magic and at least twice as dangerous.

Harry's existence quickly became tangled up in tubes, needles, and lots of shouting, as the first thing he did upon being wheeled into Emergency was vomit spectacularly on a nurse. She stepped back and swore loudly while two other aides turned him on his side. Still unconscious, he continued to retch and it took several minutes, suction, and two emesis bins to empty him.

A doctor put in an IV. That, however, was as far as he got, because something inborn and magical in Harry sensed that someone was about to do something really unpleasant to him when he was belly-up and defenseless. Accordingly, several steel instruments leapt off the trays surrounding Harry's gurney and pointed themselves at the terrified medical staff; no one had a clue what was going on.

These particular Muggles were of the seen-it-all variety, though, so fortunately the team didn't lose their heads. Someone managed to distract a particularly persnickety set of scissors while someone else started Harry on a drip full of painkillers. The magic was quickly overpowered by the drugs and in one final heave-ho, all the instruments zipped forward over the heads of the stunned staff like little silver rockets and stuck themselves firmly in the walls.

A doctor blinked furiously at this display. "Did everyone else see that?" He asked.

There were astonished nods all around.

"Good. I thought I was losing my mind."

Everyone laughed, even the nurse who'd been spewed on, and with no further magical outbursts they were able to treat their patient like an ordinary boy, even though he was as far from ordinary as a boy could be. At the end of an hour he was splinted, bandaged, taped, still drugged to the gills, and on his way up to the Trauma ward to have some bones set.

As his gurney disappeared through the elevator, the nurse who'd first found him breathed a sigh of relief. She sat down with his chart and checked that she'd put down all the pertinent information before sending his chart up to Trauma: four cracked ribs, broken left arm, right leg dislocated at the hip, cracked right thigh bone, broken nose, concussion, and various bruises and cuts. As the boy had no identification, she set down "John Doe." That didn't stop her feeling intensely sorry for him.

* * *

Hedwig had stopped only long enough to see the nurse run over to Harry and catch a glimpse of a sign that said "St. Anthony's." In the hands of Muggles, she was not at all convinced he was safe, but he was no longer with the Dursleys, so she felt he had a decent chance of making it through this alive. With a very fast mid-air turn she veered around and flew off to London, strength renewed with purpose and fear, and swooped right into the window of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix was quiet. It had gone particularly silent in the days following Sirius's death, but the members were still keeping up the good fight, so it wasn't unusual to see at least three of them hanging around. Hedwig flew through the house looking for signs of life and finally discovered it in the living room, where Remus Lupin was having an after-dinner nap on the sofa.

He was dozing with his fingers laced across his belly, the twilight catching all the grays in his brown hair, and snoring loudly enough to attract the attention of some rogue Doxies, who were waltzing on his nose. Hedwig landed gently on his shoulder and the Doxies flew away squeaking in terror. The noise of the fleeing Doxies was enough to wake him.

"Hmm? Uh? Whassamatter?" Lupin slurred, coming around. He finally realized Hedwig was perching on him. "Oh, Hedwig! Another message?" He checked her leg. Nothing.

Hedwig was staring at him intently. It was all she could do, really. Lupin sat up and she fluttered onto the coffee table.

"Hedwig, what are you doing here? Did someone send you?" he asked stupidly, not quite awake.

Hedwig decided, then and there, that not being able to talk to humans was the single most maddening thing in the world. She had no desire to sit here and play 'Lassie' with Lupin, not when Harry was hurt and alone, but then Lupin asked the magic question.

"Is Harry all right?"

Finally, something she could answer! She shook her head.

Lupin was up in an instant. "Tonks! Albus!" he shouted. "Come down here quickly! Hedwig's just arrived!"

Almost instantly Nymphadora Tonks and Albus Dumbledore appeared in the living room, headed for Hedwig. Tonks had blazingly red hair today, and Dumbledore was putting away his Exploding Snap cards. They'd been playing in the kitchen.

"What's happened, Remus?" he asked, coming over.

"Hedwig just arrived, with no note. I have a bad feeling about this. Have you noticed how short Harry's messages have been?"

"We've all noticed, Remus," Dumbledore replied, sitting down on the sofa and giving Hedwig the same intense stare she'd given Lupin. "But I think Hedwig may have something to offer us."

Hedwig hooted and flapped her wings – her attempt at an affirmative.

"When are the Weasleys getting here?" Tonks asked.

Lupin checked his watch. "In a few minutes. They're leaving their sons Fred and George in charge of the house so they can come for the meeting. Molly's probably giving them a last-minute lecture just now."

"The twins?" Tonks said with a grin. "They'll be lucky if the house is still standing when they get back!"

"Please, both of you," Dumbledore cut in. He'd set Hedwig on his knee. The snowy owl hooted softly at him, curious.

As soon as the room was quiet, Dumbledore closed his eyes and gently put a hand on Hedwig's head. Lupin looked on sagely, but Tonks was watching the proceedings with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow.

"Legilimency on an owl?" she whispered to Lupin.

Lupin nodded. "Perhaps he can find something that will explain why Hedwig's here."

Hedwig felt a sudden warmth spread from her heart to her wingtips, and heard a voice, Dumbledore's, she realized, inside her head. He was saying gently, "Tell me." So she let him right in, taking him past Harry writing at knifepoint at the kitchen table, through a few weeks in a dark attic, and finally to the horror on the stairs, the drive to St. Anthony's, and her wizard being dumped out in front of the hospital like so much rubbish.

By the time Dumbledore had taken his hand off Hedwig, the Weasleys had arrived and were watching him with Lupin and Tonks. He didn't even look at them.

"Er, Albus?" Molly asked.

Dumbledore turned to her with a look of such cold fury on his face that she backed into her husband. It took a few moments for the headmaster of Hogwarts to get his ire under control and explain what Hedwig had shown him, but when he did, his audience gasped in the right places and Molly flew into a rage that matched Dumbledore's. She immediately volunteered herself and Arthur to get Harry out of St. Anthony's.

"... and left with Muggles! Those idiots! This is outrageous!" Molly finished. "Where are we off to, and how quickly can we leave?" she demanded, whirling on Dumbledore like a mother hen.

Dumbledore couldn't help but smile. "The Trauma ward at St. Anthony's Hospital will be your destination, and you'll leave very soon. But you will need something, and someone. Wait here."

And he was off. Bewildered, Arthur sank down into a chair. Tonks took one end of the couch, petting Hedwig, who had settled in her lap. Lupin sat down on the other end of the couch, and Molly plopped down on the coffee table. Hedwig hooted again and Tonks took her off to the kitchen to give her some food.

The wait was only a few minutes, but it seemed ridiculously long to Molly, who kept turning over what she'd heard in an undertone. "Threw him down the stairs ... Nearly died ... Stuck with Muggle doctors ... Ludicrous!" she muttered. Arthur kept nervously scratching his balding head, and when that got boring he took off his glasses and started cleaning them. Lupin just stared at the floor.

Finally Dumbledore arrived, with a Muggle thermometer (broken) and Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts matron, who had just Apparated and was adjusting her traveling cloak.

"Poppy?" Molly said. "I had no idea you were a member!"

"Hello, Molly," Madam Pomfrey replied, and they embraced. "Yes, I've been in for some time. Albus insisted I keep a low profile, though. And a good thing he called just now. I'm leaving for Aruba tomorrow!" She smiled. "Are you well?"

"Reasonably, although I think we'll all feel better once we've helped Harry."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "Albus told me everything. I've got my bag. Are we off?"

"Almost," Arthur said. "What is that thing?"

"This," Dumbledore said, holding up the broken thermometer, "Is your Portkey. It will take you back to The Burrow once you have collected Harry. We will discuss his permanent destination a little later, but he should be safe at your home for now."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, that's fine. But really, what is this?"

"Oh, it's a thermometer. It's a sort of device that Muggles use to tell someone's temperature."

Madam Pomfrey's indelicate snort told everyone exactly what she thought of Muggle medical technology. Lupin smiled a little.

"In any case," Dumbledore continued, "Poppy, you will go to the Burrow and await Molly and Arthur's return. Get something set up to receive Harry."

"Yes, sir!" she said. With a nod to the Weasleys, she vanished.

Dumbledore turned the Weasleys. "It's up to you two to find Harry and get him out of the hospital as quickly as possible. Molly, I'll need a good memory charm from you. The doctors and nurses shouldn't remember Harry; it will hardly do if a patient goes missing and everyone panics. Arthur, you must keep track of this Portkey. Keep it in your pocket."

He handed over the thermometer with a bit of trepidation, since Mr. Weasley's eyes were shining with excitement. "And for heavens' sake, man, resist the urge to play with it. Make contact with me as soon as Molly's finished her work, and I'll activate it."

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Right then, the rest of us will stay here to await your report. I daresay there is enough around this house to keep us occupied until you return. Oh, and before you go ..."

Dumbledore twiddled his wand at the two of them, and when they looked down their robes had been replaced with blue scrubs, each with nametags.

"Oh, my!" Molly said.

"Oh, brilliant!" Arthur cheered, looking down at himself excitedly. He was even more thrilled when a stethoscope popped out of nowhere and draped itself over his neck. "I have a stelloscope! I've heard about these things!"

"Come on Arthur, it's just for show," Molly said. "No need to get so giddy. Let's be off."

And they disappeared with a loud crack, leaving Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore and Hedwig behind. Fortunately the no one else was due to arrive for another hour, which gave them plenty of time to get the word out to the rest of the members that the meeting had been postponed until further notice.

* * *

"Why do I have to make dinner?" Ron whined.

"Because Ginny's daft in the kitchen," Fred began.

"Hermione won't be here for a bit," George continued.

"And we said so!" the twins said together. They marched off and left Ron alone, staring grumpily at the stove.

"We said so!" Ron mimicked.

He poked the stove with his wand rather forcefully and two burners lit like bonfires. Ron jumped behind the island with a shriek, and only peeped out when he realized they'd got themselves under control. With a sigh of relief, he got started. His mother had left all the ingredients for a good stew ready, saying all he had to do was take them out, put them in the pot, and leave the lid on for an hour.

Ron had never been a brilliant cook, but it appeared dinner was up to him tonight, and he didn't want to disappoint. He put in the vegetables and water and bits of meat, added the lid in the vain hope everything would turn out all right, and went into the living room to wait. Ginny was upstairs getting a spare bed into her room for Hermione, who she'd invited to stay for a few weeks, and the twins were in their room doing joke shop business, so downstairs was rather quiet. The ghoul in the attic must have noticed this, because he immediately started banging on pipes. Ron rolled his eyes. Such was life at the Burrow.

Of course, that didn't mean the noise was doing anything for his nerves. He scratched his head of fiery red hair and stared down at the glass coffee table, wondering what in the world was going on with Harry. He'd sent Harry several owls over past few weeks, all asking him how he was, all inviting him to stay, and he'd only received the most bizarre messages in return: "I am fine. Thanks for asking," "All's well here," ... nonsense like that.

He'd had half a mind to write Dumbledore about these answers, since it wasn't like Harry to give such short replies or to not send letters at all. In truth, he hadn't received a single owl from Harry with a real letter in three weeks. He'd even written Hermione and asked if she'd gotten one, and she'd replied (in a panic) that she hadn't received anything besides the odd replies Ron had gotten, and that she'd written to Dumbledore herself about it, but as yet had received no answer.

Ron was getting very worried. Harry was his best mate, and this just didn't smell right. He was so deep into his thoughts that he didn't even hear the doorbell until the third ring. As the Weasleys' bell sounded a bit like a cross between Big Ben and screeching eagle and screamed "Oi! Get off your lazy bum and answer the door!" if it wasn't answered promptly, ignoring it was quite a feat.

"Coming!" Ron yelled, bounding up.

He opened the door to see Hermione standing on the stoop, loaded down with bags. "Hello, Ron," she said pleasantly. Her face took on a sharp look after a few seconds of Ron staring at her stupidly. "Are you just going to goggle at me, or are you going to help?"

Ron snapped out of it and took some of Hermione's bags inside. His mouth was yelling, "Ginny! 'Mione's here, come help with the bags!" but his mind was very much somewhere else.

Hermione Granger had showed up on his doorstep looking very different than she usually did at school. Her modest shorts still presented nice legs that had always been hidden under her Hogwarts robes, and her t-shirt showed off a respectable waistline and, well, something else that was nice to look at. Her bushy brown hair was pulled up off her freshly scrubbed face, and she was talking to him now, but all he could pay attention to were her pearly (and now properly sized) teeth.

Then he realized Hermione was glaring at him, flushing, and obviously annoyed.

"Did you hear a thing I just said?" she fumed.

"Er," said Ron.

Hermione snorted, dragging her suitcase inside. "I asked if you'd heard from Harry. I've been very worried about him, Ron!"

Ron pulled himself up taller, trying to look peeved with her as he grabbed a few more of her bags. "Well, you don't have a monopoly on worrying about Harry! I'm worried, too. And no, I haven't heard anything."

Hermione sighed and flopped onto the couch. "With any luck Dumbledore will send some Order members to find out what's going on. I just hope he's all right."

Ron grunted in agreement, dropping her stuff and flopping down beside her. "Maybe Mum and Dad know something about him. They went out for a meeting, but we can ask them when they get back."

"That's a plan."

Their discussion was interrupted by a sudden bang and the arrival of Madam Pomfrey, who appeared about six feet off the floor and landed in the easy chair opposite with a plop. Ron stood and ran to her, rather bewildered. He helped her up.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked, standing up and joining him. "What on earth are you doing here?" The darkness in her voice suggested she already had some idea.

Madam Pomfrey looked at them sadly. "I need your help. There's not much time to explain, but do you have a guest room?"

"Yeah, it's just through here," Ron said, leading them through a nearby corridor and stopping quickly at a door on the left. "Are you ill, Madam Pomfrey?"

"Oh heavens no, dear," she said. "But someone you both know needs my help."

The bottom dropped out of Hermione's stomach. "H-Harry?" she asked.

The nurse shot Hermione a brief look and then stepped inside the small, if comfortable, guest room. The double bed, which sat in the middle of the room, was completely bare save the mattress cover. The closet to the left was spacious, and to the right was a doorway leading to a tiny bathroom. An intricately carved nightstand with a fat little lamp was the only decoration.

"Something's happened to Harry?" Hermione asked again. "What's happened to him? Madam Pomfrey, what is it?" She was getting more wide-eyed and scared with every second that Poppy didn't answer.

The nurse just hung her head, knowing there wasn't much she could say to calm Harry's friends. Ron Weasley was a typical clueless boy, but Hermione Granger was one of these terrifyingly smart people who could make two and two add up to seventeen.

And Hermione was getting closer to hysterical with every second Madam Pomfrey kept silent. The evidence was clicking into place: the lack of real letters, the odd, bland replies that could have been written by anyone, the sudden appearance of the Hogwarts matron at the Burrow – Harry was obviously hurt. And since he only spent his holidays with the Dursleys, she had a pretty good idea of who might have done the damage.

"Madam Pomfrey, I need to know! What did they do to him? ... WHAT DID THEY DO TO HIM?!" she screamed finally, catching the Poppy by the lapels. A tear bloomed from one of her eyes and splashed down her front.

Poppy began to cry as well, not even trying to restrain Hermione from shaking her.

"Hermione, stop!" Ron yelled, dragging her off Madam Pomfrey.

As Poppy was now openly sniffling and Hermione had begun to sob too, Ron was more lost than ever. His mate was obviously in a bind, his parents weren't here to handle anything, and he was trapped in a very small room with two very upset witches.

"Brilliant," he muttered, hugging Hermione with one hand and looking for tissues with the other.

To be continued ...


	3. The Burrow

Reviewers, I salute you all. But specifically:

spacecatdet: Whoever you are, you rock. That was funny. Thanks for reading. :D

O r i g i n a l 1: Wow, lots of questions! Unfortunately, I can only answer one and not even that well. Forgive me in advance.

You asked for further details of how the Dursleys are mean, because you couldn't see how they were really bullying Harry.

The best I can do is to give you my definition of bullying. Bullying is the umbrella word that encompasses harassing, terrorizing, or subjugating somebody. It doesn't need to be physical or even overt. In fact, the worst kind of bullying is rarely the kind that leaves a mark. Anyway, graphic Harry abuse is not the point of the story, although this chapter does have some gory details.

Nickel Nerd: As they say, everyone has to go sometime. Glad to bring some happiness into your last remaining free days. Enjoy. :D

* * *

Part Three: The Burrow

The left wing of the Trauma ward at St. Anthony's was much emptier than the right, so no one noticed the sudden clangs and shouts that emanated from a broom closet at the end of the hallway. Molly and Arthur Weasley stumbled out, followed by two mops and a bucket. After a struggle to put everything back, they smoothed out their clothes and walked off, trying to act natural.

"Oh, I do hope we're close to Harry!" Molly said.

"Me too," Arthur agreed. "I'd hate to ask too many questions, it could blow our cover."

The Weasleys kept close to each other and attempted to look like doctors, which, considering neither of them had any idea how doctors acted, was not very easy. They eventually reached the busier area of the Trauma ward. After watching one doctor wander by with a clipboard, Arthur decided to do the same thing.

Grabbing two random clipboards off a nearby desk, he handed one to Molly and hissed, "Look official."

Molly raised an eyebrow at her husband, but didn't argue. She began to peruse the papers on her clipboard like it made some sense to her, although it made none at all. These medical charts were so bewildering, with all the strange symbols for medication and hardly any room for the patient's name. They continued to meander down the hallway together, talking quietly, until they got a stroke of luck.

A young doctor was wandering by with a nurse at his side, and saying, "Yeah, just finished setting that John Doe who came in. Heard what happened, didn't you?"

Molly and Arthur ducked behind a corner and listened. Obviously the nurse had shaken her head 'no,' because the doctor continued.

"Yeah, the emergency crew saw someone dump him out in front of the doors. Poor lad was beaten within an inch of his life. Couldn't be more than fourteen, and he had so much blood up his nose he was choking on it. There was a drama down there, I can tell you! Binks said he threw up all over a nurse, and someone else was screaming about medical instruments taking flight, but it stopped as soon as they got him sedated."

"That's weird!" said the nurse.

"Yeah, well, we're thinking it was a poltergeist made the instruments fly about." (This made the nurse laugh.) "And he's doing a lot better, now."

Molly and Arthur looked at each other, peaked and upset, respectively. They were not sure Harry was doing better at all.

"So," the doctor continued, "Check on him as soon as you can. When he comes around, let the police up to see him. Perhaps he can give his name." ("Please-men? Here?" Molly squeaked quietly. Arthur shushed her.) "Oh, and Plastics is coming down for his nose, but have them take a look at his forehead. He's got some kind of scar there. It doesn't look that fresh, so I don't know how much help they'll be, but ask."

"Right. You off?"

"Almost, just need to finish his chart. 'Night, Bea."

"'Night, Evan."

Arthur's eyes went wide, but they kept still as the doctor walked right by them, carrying Harry's chart, followed a little later by the nurse. Mr. Weasley took his wife's hand and pointed in the direction the doctor and nurse had come from. Mrs. Weasley steeled herself, nodded, and put down her clipboard. Arthur did the same and they slipped into the patient area of the Trauma wing, constantly looking over their shoulder for Bea.

Arthur stared around, fascinated at all the beeping machines and oddly attired Muggles asleep in the beds, their limbs in plastic braces and casts. Molly, meanwhile, knew they had a few minutes at best before that nurse came back, and was frantically looking for Harry, all the while muttering about the dratted doctors and please-men being underfoot.

She peered through five curtains with no success, but the sixth one she pulled back made her gasp. Arthur turned his attention from a Muggle who seemed to be nothing but plaster and came hurrying over. Molly pulled him behind the bed's curtain and re-fastened it.

Both of them looked down, and for several seconds were so struck by the enormity of what they saw that neither of them had anything to say.

Harry looked as though he had been hit several times by a truck. One of his closed eyes had gone purple and puffy. His left cheek was cut. He wore a clear breathing mask over his mouth (Molly noted his chapped lips) and his bloodied nose was very swollen underneath its bandages. His left arm was bent at the elbow, completely encased in white plaster. Arthur tried to fight his own panic by explaining a few things to Molly, who seemed to be miles away.

She gently touched the two plastic discs stuck high on his chest; the rest of it was covered by bandages. He wore no gown, and even though a few sheets covered the rest of him, she could tell his right leg was propped up on a pillow and probably encased in the same strange white stuff as his left arm. The discs on him seemed to be attached to a funny beeping box on his right, and something was dripping into him from a bag that hung on a metal hanger. His round glasses sat on a small tray next to his bed. Arthur picked them up and pocketed them.

Molly set to work and conjured a few blankets. They landed gently in a folded pile on top of Harry. "Dear, you're the Muggle expert. See if you can turn off those things without causing a ruckus. I'll get to work on the memory charm."

Arthur did as his wife asked. Because of his extensive knowledge of plugs, he managed to unplug not only the beeping machine but the machine that controlled the drip. Then he turned to the rather sticky task of getting Harry disconnected from everything. The needles in the boy's arm and hand were simple enough to remove, and it was easy to get the mask off, but there was nothing for the discs. Arthur just ripped. They came off fast, but left little red welts and Arthur was immensely glad that Harry was still asleep, although how was a bit of a mystery. He supposed the Muggles must have given him some sort of sleeping draught to keep him from fidgeting.

He turned to Molly, who was whispering and holding up her wand, her eyes closed. A strange blue mist was emanating from it and spreading outward very fast. In a moment the whole Trauma wing was full of it, but Molly kept muttering the charm over and over, eyes closed, until Arthur looked out of the window that was near Harry's bed and saw the blue mist leaking out the doors on the ground floor. Molly had managed to fill the entire hospital with her mass memory charm.

Finally she opened her eyes and looked at Arthur, who nodded. She finished the incantation. The mist vanished, and both distinctly heard the nurse, who couldn't have been five feet from the curtain around Harry's bed, say, "Why am I going in here again?" This was followed hard-upon by retreating footsteps.

The police officers waiting downstairs in Emergency couldn't recall why they'd come to the hospital in the first place, and departed to grab some pasties for dinner.

And no one even noticed the doctor putting Harry's chart into the Trauma department break room's shredder, his face relaxed, and his eyes remarkably glazed.

"I'll get Harry ready to go," Molly said, wiping her brow. A memory charm that large was difficult, even for a fully-qualified witch. "Contact Albus, would you?" she said, bustling around her charge and wrapping him in the blankets.

Arthur closed his eyes and concentrated, and as soon as he opened them, he felt something jiggling in his pocket. He lifted out the broken thermometer, which had taken on a golden glow, and looked at Molly. She'd gotten Harry completely wrapped up except for his right hand, which he'd need to touch the Portkey. Arthur held it, Molly kept a finger on it, Harry's hand was placed limply upon it, and all three of them vanished.

* * *

The effect of Madam Pomfrey's news was sobering. After Hermione's outburst in the bedroom, the Hogwarts nurse quickly found herself ringed by upset, angry faces (most framed with flaming red hair), and the Weasley children had milked her dry of all the information she had regarding Harry. She was not happy to re-tell the whole ghastly thing. But she knew it would be easier on their mum if no one was begging her for details, so she explained to all of them what she knew.

The twins stalked off looking murderous, Ron followed them, Ginny and Hermione helped Poppy make up the guest bed, and after that there was nothing to do but wait.

Ron made himself useful by getting drinks for everyone. The twins both asked for a shot of Firewhisky, but Ron quipped sullenly that if he knew where it was, he'd be having it all himself. Ginny and Hermione were sitting on the sofa, talking half-heartedly about plans for the rest of the summer. Madam Pomfrey was sitting in an arm chair reading a book and the twins were discussing business at the kitchen table, jabbing at a bit of parchment with quills and arguing over inventory. Even though they were talking about things like Pucker-Up Prawlines, their mood was sober.

The sudden appearance of Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley in the middle of the living room caught everyone's attention. Mrs. Weasley looked rather tired and lost and Mr. Weasley was a bit white-faced, holding a large bundle of blankets. Ginny jumped and Hermione started to rise, but Poppy was faster. She quickly had a hand on Arthur's shoulder and led him down the hall to the guest bedroom.

And it seemed that as fast as the excitement had started, it was over. Everyone watched Mr. Weasley walk quickly out of the room with his large bundle, and then went back about their business in a sort of stupor. Ron went back to watching the stew, quite literally. He wasn't even stirring it, just staring at the pot. The twins found themselves staring at the parchment between them. Ginny and Hermione had gone quiet.

And then Mr. Weasley came back into the living room, head down and walking fast, well aware that five pairs of young eyes were trained on him. He kept his back to everybody, mostly to keep the conversation between him and his wife private, but also so only she would see his wet face.

Mrs. Weasley was standing by the fireplace in a fog. She hadn't moved since her arrival. Mr. Weasley went to her and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'm g-going for Albus, Molly," he whispered.

She nodded at him slowly, still with that lost look in her eyes. "We'll keep dinner for you," she replied, in a husky voice she hardly recognized as her own.

Mr. Weasley nodded back, swallowing against the lump in his throat, and Apparated away with a loud crack.

Immediately the five pairs of eyes were trained on Mrs. Weasley, who finally set herself in motion and walked slowly over to the couch. She plopped down between Hermoine and Ginny, threw an arm over each girl, and sat staring blankly at the opposite wall. Hermione had never seen her look more pale or sad.

"I could never forgive myself if anything happened to that boy that I could prevent," she said softly. "And I think I could have prevented this."

Ginny took her hand. The twins came over as one and sat side by side on the coffee table, facing their mum and mirroring her tired, sad expression, while Ron simply walked over behind and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I disagree," Hermione said quietly. "You did everything you could. You saved him, Mrs. Weasley. You and Mr. Weasley both."

"Hermione's right, Mum," Ginny added.

But Mrs. Weasley wasn't listening. She wasn't even curious as to how they all knew what had happened, or why. Everything she'd heard from Albus, everything she'd seen at the hospital, it was coming down on her like a collapsing roof. She couldn't pay attention to what anyone was saying.

"You sh-should have seen him!" she spluttered.

That was all she managed. Two fat tears rolled down her face and she began to weep quietly, shaking like a leaf, too upset to breathe properly and horribly embarrassed to be falling apart in front of her children.

To everyone's surprise, Ron leaned down and hugged her. Hermione and Ginny barely heard him murmur "Hey, Mum, it's all right," and the twins didn't hear him at all, but Mrs. Weasley heard him. For a moment she stopped sniffling, distracted by how much her Ronald had grown up.

* * *

Petunia was in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes as usual, humming tunelessly to block out the blare of the telly in the next room. Dudley and Vernon were watching football and cheering their team on, notching their yelling up to a violent fortissimo every time the referee shouted "Goal!"

Petunia sighed and started with the rinsing. She hated sports almost as much as she hated magic. How Lily had ever been so fond of that Quidditch rubbish, she would never know.

At the thought of Lily, Petunia's hands shook so hard she dropped the dish she was trying to rinse. It fell into the sink with a clatter and broke, and Petunia had to sit down and wait for the shakes to go away.

Harry's aunt was finding it extraordinarily hard to concentrate on doing the dishes. In fact, ever since Vernon had driven off to the local hospital with the boy and come home without him, she'd found it very hard to concentrate on anything at all. Responsibility was responsibility, even if it was to a natty-haired little brat.

True, that wretched, lying freeloader had somehow gotten her precious Duddy stuck in a window. (Used the "M" word, probably!) And of course Dudley managed to get himself out of it, clever boy. But the bit that Dudley had told her about scolding Harry, his cousin retorting with wild insults, and then slipping and falling down the stairs ...

Well, Petunia thought that sounded awfully strange. Harry was many unpleasant things, but clumsy was not one of them. She was jerked out of her thoughts by a sudden tap on the shoulder. With a start, she turned to see who it was.

And if Albus Dumbledore hadn't whispered "_Silencio!_" at her before getting her attention, the whole of Privet Drive would have heard her scream.

She shrieked and yelled until she was red in the face, to absolutely no effect, and finally bent over, heaving for breath. Dudley and Vernon were still in the living room, staring at the telly. Petunia finally decided screaming was no use, so she stood up to look at Dumbledore directly, with a sour look on her face, pursed lips, and crossed arms.

Dumbledore immediately flicked his wand at her, and she cleared her throat. Much to her surprise, a sound came out.

"We must talk, you and I," he said quietly.

Petunia un-pursed her lips and replied, "Outside. I don't want Dudley or Vernon to see."

Dumbledore bowed slightly. "As you wish."

* * *

Mr. Weasley gently laid his burden down on the bed in the guest room. Then he handed Harry's glasses to Poppy, excused himself quickly with a nervous nod, and saw himself out. Poppy turned around and walked toward the bed, gathering her nerve. After watching Arthur shake so badly when he handed her Harry's glasses ... this was not going to be pretty.

She needed a moment after seeing his face. It was so swollen that it hardly resembled the friendly, gentle boy she knew from Hogwarts. If not for his wild, untidy black hair she would have assumed she was looking at Goyle with a black eye. So she got to work, feeling perhaps this would be easier in sections.

With a tap of her wand she mended his nose and then covered it, along with his eye, with Berebot's Bruise Cream, a yellowish, gunky substance that smelled terrible but worked very fast. His lips got some balm and the cut on his cheek got a dab of Windleworth's ointment. With this taken care of, she unwrapped him a little at a time and inched her way down, stopping along the way to mend bones, vanish casts, ease swellings, heal damaged organs, and repair torn muscles.

There was no sign that Harry felt anything, or that he was even awake. Poppy scratched her head. She knew Muggles made use of nasty stuff that Arthur had told her was called "asenetic," and it was meant to block pain while they cut each other open. But asenetic had very dangerous side-effects, and she had no idea how a young wizard would react to it.

Just to check, she performed a Scanning charm. It was simple: a quick spell and a gentle puff of air in the patient's left ear caused a diagnosis to fly out the other side of their head a few minutes later. While the spell made its analysis, she dressed Harry in clean pajamas (not easily done, since he couldn't help her at all), and tucked him into bed.

A voice rang out, surprising her slightly. "Current state: slightly concussed and flooded with Muggle pain medication. Predict waking in twelve hours, with agitation and disorientation, stiffness and soreness. Ongoing exhaustion for a few days. Use caution."

Madam Pomfrey nodded and sighed. Harry still had a bit of healing to do, but it looked like the worst was over. The bruise cream on his face had gone all soggy as a signal it had finished. The ointment on his cheek was almost done too, so she went to the small bathroom and wetted a rag to clean him up. After she'd wiped all the cream and ointment off him, he looked perfectly normal, scar and all, and she examined her work, tilting his face gently this way and that to see if the nose angle had to be readjusted. It looked fine.

So she packed up her wand and other supplies, pulled a phial of Pain Potion from her bag, and set it on the nightstand. She took Harry's glasses out of her pocket and laid them beside it. Then, after a moment's thought, she pulled out a Chocolate Frog and left it beside the glasses.

"Well, dear, my work here is done. You take care of yourself, now."

She said this quietly, tenderly, although she knew he couldn't possibly wake up or answer her. With a sweep of her robes she was out the door to give the Weasleys some final instructions. She was very glad to help Harry, but her sister was waiting at home to help her pack, and Aruba was calling.

* * *

Harry came around the next morning at seven, in exactly the condition the spell said he would. He was tired, aching all over, very groggy, and hardly able to see, as he couldn't feel his glasses on his nose and everything was dark anyhow. He tried to move. That was a no go, he was flat on his back and buried in blankets, but he at least managed a respectable squirm.

Something was wrong with him, he knew that much, but he felt safe. And so he immediately knew where he must be.

"Errgh," he said. It was half growl, half moan.

Fortunately, it was enough. Harry heard a rustling to his right, the moans and husky snorts of someone else waking up, and then felt two warm hands on his cheeks.

"Sirius?" he whispered.

The hands went away, and there was a very long pause.

The word just about broke Mrs. Weasley's heart. She was bending over him in the dark guest room, her hands on his face. Very slowly, she pulled away and sat down on the bed. Poppy had told her to expect Harry to wake up disoriented, but that didn't make this any easier.

Mrs. Weasley swallowed. "No dear, it's not Sirius. It's Mrs. Weasley."

"What – What are you doing in Sirius's house, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry mumbled, slurring his words. "Where's Sirius?"

Mrs. Weasley needed a second to master herself. She started moving her hands nervously and Harry felt someone brush his messy hair off his face.

"Sirius is gone, Harry. You're at my house. You're at the Burrow."

"Gone?" he repeated faintly.

"Yes dear, gone. Sirius ... Sirius is dead, sweetheart," she said softly.

Mrs. Weasley put her hands back on Harry's cheeks, and she could feel a mass creeping into her throat as she spoke. The way Harry was looking at her, not quite blankly, not quite normally, a tear leaking out of one eye for no apparent reason, and the fact that he seemed to have forgotten about his godfather ... Was it the pain medicine, or a concussion, or ...?

"No, he's just hiding. He's hiding ... behind the veil, with the rest ..." he trailed off.

And he closed his eyes. Mrs. Weasley gasped. But a minute later Harry moaned, and opened his eyes again, and seemed to come back to himself. He blinked at her like he was really awake this time, like he was seeing her and not a ghost.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, with a bit more assurance and a touch of alarm, since she was now openly crying, "What happened? Where am I?"

Mrs. Weasley leaned down and hugged Harry to her, getting her arms all around him but still keeping him on his back. Harry, who was a little stunned, simply allowed it. It never occurred to him to fight her off like her children usually did when she got carried away. She kissed his forehead (yet another foreign sensation), wiped the wetness off his cheek, and sat back.

"Oh Harry dear, you gave me such a scare. I thought you'd lost yourself."

"Lost myself? How? Mrs. Weasley, what's going on?"

Mrs. Weasley waved at the fat little lamp on Harry's night stand. It turned itself on, although dimly, and Harry found he could see a little better. Mrs. Weasley put his glasses on him, smiled gently, and started at the beginning. She talked, he asked questions, and in the end she explained everything. Well, not precisely everything – she wasn't sure she wanted Harry remembering he threw up on a nurse or lodged medical instruments in the walls of the Emergency department – but other than that, he got the whole story.

Harry was very surprised.

It was a lot to take in. Had Dudley really done all that to him? He couldn't recall anything beyond his eye, his leg, and that last blow to the head. And where was Hedwig, now that she'd gone to the Order for help? The Weasleys had freed him from a Muggle hospital? He'd _been_ in hospital? Really? These thoughts chased each other around in Harry's brain for a bit, not exactly settling into place.

He still felt dull and fuzzy from the pain medication, and really, really exhausted. However, he could definitely say one thing for Mrs. Weasley's story: it jived with the lingering sore spots all over him, which apparently were the remnants of Madam Pomfrey's intensive healing work. He decided to take her word for it and not try to remember the whole thing.

* * *

And so Harry spent the next three days in what seemed to him some earthly outcropping of heaven. Mrs. Weasley saw to every basic need he had, and took any opportunity to fuss over him like he was one of her own. She started his recovery by feeding him a glug of Pain Potion, which was most appreciated, and set to work manipulating his arms and legs to get the stiffness out. Then she drew the covers over him, tucked him in tight, and encouraged him to go back to sleep. After twenty straight days of yard work, a terrible medical ordeal, and now finding himself in an absurdly comfortable bed, he didn't need much convincing.

In fact, the first thing to wake him again was a pleasant surprise. He was having some ridiculous dream about playing Quidditch against a team of clowns when something landed gently on his belly. He kept his eyes closed, realizing that he was not flying on a broomstick but warm and safe in bed, and waited. The something was still on him, and the something had feet. He could feel it walking along the covers and finally stop on his chest, where it let out a soft hoot. He opened his eyes.

Hedwig had her feathery face right in his, staring at him intently, matching his green gaze with her amber one. He smiled at her blearily. She seemed to have every feather in place, her usual inquisitiveness, and a full stomach. At least one of them had made it out of the Dursleys' house in a modicum of health.

"'Lo, Hedwig," he said quietly, his voice cracking all over the place. "You look well."

Hedwig, in response, leaned her pretty head forward and nuzzled his nose. She'd never done this before, which alarmed Harry somewhat. He imagined he must have been spectacularly mangled to earn such a distinctly un-owl-like display of affection. So he freed one of his arms (quite a job, Mrs. Weasley had really wedged him in) and brought it up to pet her.

She hooted softly again and leaned into his hand. Then she gave him another tickly owl snark and swooped out of the room. He watched her go, very pleased she was all right, but the urge to sleep quickly overcame him again and he went with it. The fat little lamp on the nightstand, sensing he'd drifted away, turned itself off.

Harry slept a lot that first day. Mrs. Weasley managed to wake him a few times, successfully tempting him on each occasion with honeyed porridge and hot sweet tea. He woke himself a few times too, stumbling clumsily out of bed and staggering stiffly into the guest bathroom.

The second day was better. Mrs. Weasley still came often, sometimes with food and sometimes to help him stretch out. He again slept quite a bit, although not as much as the first day, and he privately decided that if he was going to be laid up, this was the way to do it. It was already getting easier to move about. Harry spent a few minutes looking around his room and found, to his surprise and delight, that someone had gotten his trunk from home and put it in the closet. All his old clothes had been cleaned, patched, ironed, and hung up neatly. Mrs. Weasley's doing, probably. He couldn't help but smile.

Things really picked up the third day. Ron stopped by with a glass of water for Harry (which Ron proceeded to drink, much to Harry's amusement) and looked very relieved that his friend was doing so well. They played several games of Exploding Snap and talked about Quidditch. The Chudley Cannons were having a game in a month, and Ron said he was going to try and wrangle some tickets, but only if Harry would come. Harry agreed at once.

Ginny came in with a change of pajamas for Harry, "for later," and ended up staying an hour. She told him all about her last exciting date with Dean Thomas, bored him half to death, and only stopped talking when he pretended to doze off. Unfortunately, pretending to doze off lead to _actually_ dozing off, and when he next woke, someone had taken off his glasses and she was gone. He just hoped she wasn't mad at him. With any luck she would put it down to exhaustion.

The twins just barged in without any excuse at all, pumped both Harry's hands forcefully, told him that business was continuing to grow, and proclaimed they were going to do something horrible to Dudley in defense of an egregious, completely unprovoked attack on "their Seeker." Harry pointed out that the twins had left school. George insisted a Gryffindor was a Gryffindor. Fred finished that a Quidditch player was a Quidditch player. Harry grinned.

Hermione came by near the end of the day, and a good thing, because Harry, having plenty of time to think, had grown increasingly worried about the talk he'd had with Dumbledore at the end of the year. In fact, by the time she showed up Mrs. Weasley had propped him up with pillows, since he insisted he couldn't sleep. He was just too worked up to close his eyes.

It was that dratted blood charm, which had occupied his mind more than it should have since Dumbledore had told him about it. At the moment it had him even more worried than the actual prophecy. The whole business about only being safe if he was physically in the house where his mother's blood dwelled didn't seem like something one should muck about with, and besides, the issue of safety and space didn't just concern Harry – it concerned everyone within blasting range.

But Hermione wasn't the cleverest witch in the year for nothing. They started the visit by talking, worked their way up to arguing, and after fifteen minutes of really going at it Hermione had been reduced to listening impatiently and rolling her eyes while Harry panicked.

"Hermione, you don't understand. At the end of the year, Dumbledore said I'm only safe as long as I reside where my mother's blood dwells. And that, for better or for worse, means number 4 Privet Drive. Voldemort's got nothing to hold him back, now. If he finds me here, he'll get me and probably take out everyone else in the process! I can't stay at the Burrow!"

"Harry, of course you can stay here! Don't you know who arrived just after you? As soon as Madam Pomfrey finished up and Mrs. Weasley pulled herself together, she Disapparated and came back a few minutes later with a few guests. The Weasleys have got half the Order under their roof!"

Harry blinked at her. "You're having me on. Who's here?"

"Well, Professor Dumbledore, to start with. And he's the only one Voldemort was ever afraid of! He's staying with us while you get better, and so are Professor Lupin and Professor Moody. And then ... well, I don't know what'll happen next, but the point is you're safe, and we're all safe, and Dumbledore means to keep it that way. Don't worry, Harry. Nothing's going to happen while he's here."

"But Hermione ..."

"Harry, please, I'm telling you, everything's fine." She soothed. "Come on now, let's get you back under the covers. You need to rest."

She was, as usual, correct. Harry made a few exasperated noises, which she assumed were attempts at arguing with her, but she could see that she'd eased his mind somewhat. She took away pillows until he was laying flat, helped him get under the bedclothes properly and brought all the covers to his chin. The conversation had obviously exhausted him; he allowed her to tuck him in without a fuss.

"Comfortable?" she whispered.

He barely managed "Yes thanks," before nodding off.

Hermione bit back a laugh. She took off his glasses and laid them on the bedside table, very happy that her friend was doing so much better. If Harry was cognizant enough to be worrying over other people, he would be fine in no time.

To be continued ...


	4. The Phial

Reviewers:D

Creeko: Thanks for your reviews and for adding me to your list. :D I sure do appreciate it. In answer to your question: yes. I think Remus is the kind of guy we'd all date if we didn't live in fear of getting a werewolf hickey. LOL

Socially Inept: Thanks for the review and putting me on your list. That was very nice of you. :D

Amour Lily: Hey, glad you like it! Thanks for your reviews.

athenakitty: People who ask loads of questions tend to be either a) really engaged or b) really confused … but I think you're an "a." :D Thanks for paying attention and getting into it!

Nickel Nerd: Cheers, kiddo. Keep your chin up at school and you'll survive just fine.

Here is the grand finale, which the author would like to preface with the following question: where does the power in a sad story reside, if not in the promise of a happy ending?

* * *

Part Four: The Phial

Hermione loved being right. On the fourth day of Harry's stay it was breakfast as usual; all the Weasleys were crowded around the breakfast table eating toast and porridge. Dumbledore, Moody, and Lupin were helping themselves to scones and tea. There were several loud conversations going on at once. People were shouting to make themselves heard.

And then, suddenly, there was silence. Hermione looked up from her toast to see Harry wandering in, completely oblivious, cleaning his glasses with his pajama shirt and yawning. His dressing gown was twisted up a little, he was slightly in need of a shower, and his hair was sticking out in absolutely every direction. He seemed to finally pick up on the dead silence in the room, because he put on his now clean glasses and blinked owlishly at the table, which was staring at him to a member.

"Morning, all. What's for breakfast?" he said with a smile.

Everyone started shouting at once. There were boisterous greetings ("Come out of your cocoon, have you? Are you a butterfly now?" the twins asked, while Mrs. Weasley said "Oh, Harry!"), hugs from the women, enthusiastic handshakes and hellos from the men, and plenty of food. Hermione and Ginny cleared a place between them and Harry sat down, where he happily tucked into the waffles Mrs. Weasley served him and joined the conversation.

It wasn't until they were all fed that the talk turned to anything serious. Dumbledore leaned back from the table, very full of Mrs. Weasley's scones, and looked round at everyone else absent-mindedly finishing their porridge or just looking at him. It seemed they were all expecting him to say something. Harry was the only person who didn't seem too keen on hearing anything from his headmaster, as he appeared to be fascinated with the table top and didn't look up until Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"By now, I'm sure you all know what happened at Privet Drive," Dumbledore said, without preamble. "I assume the person to whom it happened has been apprised of the facts. Is that correct, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"And who have you told?" Dumbledore asked him.

Harry was confused. Had he made a mistake in even telling Hermione about the blood thing? What if it was some huge secret and he'd blown it? He decided to play dumb. With any luck, Hermione would have enough sense to keep her mouth shut.

"Er, who have I told what, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Never mind. I will inform everyone."

The rest of the table looked at him with interest.

"Fifteen years ago, when Harry was very small, I put him in the care of his aunt and uncle because his mother's love and blood had saved him from Voldemort." (Ron and the twins cringed at the name.) "That blood also flows through the veins of Petunia Dursley, and the protection afforded him by that blood tie has protected him every summer. That was, of course, until last week."

There was some savage murmuring that seemed to come from Moody's direction.

"His family has always managed to compromise his happiness in some way. Harry and I discussed it at the end of last year, and although neither of us was pleased with it, Harry was willing to accept diminished happiness to stay alive." Dumbledore paused and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "That said, I admit it was a huge mistake for him to return this summer. I saw inklings of this sort of problem brewing with Vernon, who I feared might take to really hurting Harry, which was why after Alastor threatened him we kept more of a watch over the house than ever.

But we all made a fatal mistake. We didn't watch Dudley. We assumed too many things about him – he was stupid and cowardly, he was useless and fat. Yes, he was big and powerful, but far too slow to catch Harry. So long as Mrs. Figg saw Harry working out in the yard, we knew he was safe."

Dumbledore sighed. "Harry, I must apologize. We've all noticed your letters have been short. In fact, they bordered on impersonal."

"But –"

"Hedwig showed me what your uncle did. His actions were despicable, and we had a … er … a talk with him," he said, glancing at Moody and Lupin, who both looked oddly grim, yet satisfied.

Harry had the distinct impression that something unpleasant had happened to Uncle Vernon, and possibly to Dudley.

"Professor Moody?" he asked. "Did you …"

"Turn him into a toad? Certainly did!" Moody interrupted. "Spell won't wear off for a week!" he continued, as the table roared with laughter.

"And Dudley will spend the rest of the holidays as an enormous white rat," Lupin said pleasantly. "I daresay it's an improvement over what he usually looks like. And without him leading his gang of friends, I think the neighborhood children will have a much happier summer."

Harry finally managed to shake off his shock. "Well done!" he said, and shook Lupin's hand. Lupin started laughing.

"Harry," Dumbledore cut in, "Please accept all of our apologies for not noticing this sooner."

Harry waved him off. "Oh, I don't blame any of you," he said. "My uncle's quite keen on making things look normal. He's gotten rather good at it."

"Yes, well, fortunately, he's not good enough. And since it is clear that you are completely recovered," Dumbledore said, (he ignored Mrs. Weasley's interjection of "Nonsense!") "It must be discussed where you will be staying for the rest of the summer."

The laughter at the table died away. In fact, the noise at the table died away. Everyone found themselves staring silently at Dumbledore.

Harry was not pleased at this change of topic. _"The rest of the summer?"_ Even with Dudley as a rat and Uncle Vernon as a toad, he was not incredibly interested in going back to Surrey. Once his relatives were back to normal (which would happen soon enough), they were sure to be nasty. He looked nervously at Ron, who was resolutely staring at Dumbledore.

"As you know, the charm sealed by Petunia will only give you protection if you can call home where your mother's blood dwells. And it dwells …"

Harry looked down glumly. He knew what was coming next. Privet Drive. He was going back to people who couldn't even bear to take him to hospital, but instead had to dump him out front and dash.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and finished, "Here."

Everybody at the table stared at the Hogwarts headmaster like he'd sprouted an extra set of limbs.

"P-Pardon?" Harry stammered, hardly believing his ears. "Here? But that's impossible! My aunt lives in Little Whinging. She'd never come and live here, and I doubt anybody would want her to."

"Well, of course your Aunt Petunia would never dwell here, but this can," Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye.

And from a pocket in his robes he pulled out a small round phial, no bigger than a baby's fist, stopped with a cork. It was full of a red liquid. He set it on the table.

"I surprised your aunt in the kitchen the day Molly and Arthur brought you back from hospital, Harry. It seems she believed the fairytale Dudley made up about you shoving him through a window until he got stuck, and then arguing with him, losing your balance, and falling down the stairs. ("What!" said Harry.)

"However, I quickly disabused her of this notion, and showed her what Hedwig saw in the foyer. I explained to her my course of action for the rest of the summer. She agreed to it, pricked her finger with a chef's knife, and let me bottle the protection you needed – her blood."

Harry stared at Dumbledore with the rest, his tongue dry, hoping vaguely he wasn't the only one who had his mouth hanging open.

"Granted it's not living blood, so the protection has a bit of a short shelf life, but I have added my own protective spell to the mix, as have Remus and Alastor, and we think it will be enough. Harry, I said it once, and I will say it again. While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."

And suddenly, what Dumbledore was actually saying began to peek through. Harry's mother's blood was sitting on the table. He was surrounded by people who were beginning to smile in understanding. Suddenly there were two firm hands on his shoulders and he looked up to see the underside of Mrs. Weasley's chin. Looking across at Ron, who'd cottoned on with the rest and was outright beaming, he started to smile, too.

"You can always call this place home, mate," Ron said.

"Well, I'd like to," Harry replied carefully. "That is, if all of you will be safe with me here."

Mr. Weasley laughed. "My dear boy!" he said. "Do you have any idea how many protective spells are on this house, now we're in the Order? It's nearly as safe as Headquarters. We'll be fine!"

At this news, Harry's smile broadened. He looked at Dumbledore. "Sir, may I stay?"

"Permanently, no. The contents of that bottle will only guarantee your safety until the end of the summer. So we will have to figure out something else for next year, but until school starts … yes, you may stay."

The table erupted into cheers. There was an explosion of "Brilliant!" as Ron jumped out of his seat and did a little celebratory dance, all the while yelling about the upcoming Cannons match, and then rushed over to tackle Harry. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley beamed and shook Dumbledore's hand. Harry congratulated Moody and Lupin on their excellent work, Ginny hugged Harry very hard, Hermione gave him a dazzling grin, and the twins ran over to give him a double dutch-rub. You couldn't find a happier house that day.

* * *

And so, Harry spent the rest of the summer with the Weasleys. There was always something to do, whether it was garden work (which Harry had gotten rather good at), homework (which everyone moaned about) or Important Work (Ron's codeword for Quidditch practice in the backyard). Days were spent doing some combination of the "works," evenings were spent messing around, and weekends were usually taken up with sleeping in and having leisurely meals. Harry slept on the spare bed in Ron's room, falling asleep every night to the quiet scuffling noises of Hedwig and Pigwidgeon getting comfortable on their perches, and the peeping of crickets outside. Life was good.

Hermione stayed for a week and a half, which was enough time to help everyone finish their homework. Harry, in exchange for her torturing them with question and answer periods, got her to take a ride on a broomstick. She said yes, but only on the condition that she ride with him, because she didn't trust Ron at all. Ron made all sorts of huffy sounds and protestations, but Hermione held her ground, so to speak, and Harry took her up.

She handled it rather well, considering how much she hated flying, and actually seemed to enjoy it at first. Sitting behind Harry, her arms around his middle, she gave only a small jolt as Harry got them about twenty feet off the ground. They hovered in the air and Hermione looked about. She could see the whole backyard, the whole house, and a lot of sunny meadow.

"Oh, this is beautiful!" she said.

Of course, after a few minutes of Harry flying around slowly and banking increasingly tight turns, she buried her face in the back of his jumper, vehemently refused to "admire the view," and started to shake like mad. So he took her back down. They landed gently on the grass. Hermione, a little dizzy from all the turning, tried to toddle away without getting her land legs first, took two steps, and fell flat on her bum. Ron roared with laughter.

* * *

The beginning of August saw a first for Harry. In all the tumult of his arrival and situating at the Burrow, there hadn't been time, but Mrs. Weasley reckoned a belated celebration was better than none at all. It came as a complete surprise to the guest of honor.

On the last night of Hermione's stay, Harry came in from helping Ron and Ginny in the shed, only to find a small cake waiting for him at the table and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys cheering. The cake was a gooey chocolate thing with green lettering that spelled out "Happy Birthday!" and leaned precariously to the left. There were several Filibuster fireworks, some silly hats, and a great dinner. There were a few rounds of Happy Birthday, enlivened by the twins, who were loud and horribly out of tune.

And there were three presents. Hermione, Ginny, and Mr. Weasley had pooled a little cash (magical and Muggle) and gotten Harry a small gift certificate for Three Letter Blank Space, which, Hermione had assured Ginny and Mr. Weasley, was a fashionable Muggle clothing shop in London. The hope was that Harry would buy himself some clothes that fit. Harry stammered his thanks and wondered when he'd get the opportunity to use it.

Ron and the twins had pooled their money and bought him a pair of gently-used Sights from the Quidditch supply shop in Diagon Alley. Harry was thrilled – anything Quidditch-related was cause for excitement. The Sights looked like well-made, old-fashioned, leather pilot goggles, and Harry realized that was exactly what they were. However, these goggles magically matched the prescription of his glasses, so he didn't need to bother with them when he played and he wouldn't have to squint into the wind anymore. He put them on, and everyone laughed at how much they magnified his big green eyes. ("We'll have to get that fixed," mumbled George.)

But Mrs. Weasley provided the best present of all. Everyone was leaning back from the dinner table, full of dinner and cake, hands on satisfied stomachs, when she gave Harry a small envelope. Harry took it from her, pushed the Sights up on his head (which made his hair spike out every which way), put on his glasses, and opened it. Inside was a small piece of parchment.

_Check the clock._

That was all it said. For a moment Harry was puzzled, because the Weasleys owned quite a few relatively normal clocks. Checking all of them would take a while. But after a moment's thought (this was a wizarding house after all) Harry figured he could narrow the list of likely suspects to three. So he went round to have a look.

There was the clock that told Mrs. Weasley her chores (no, nothing different there). There was the wheezing clock in the upstairs hallway that always reminded people when they were running late (no, it just wished him a belated happy birthday). And last but not least, there was the downstairs grandfather clock, right in full view of the dining room table. Everyone at the table was watching him, some with small smiles.

Harry smiled back and turned back to the clock. He'd always thought this timepiece was very nice. It was masterfully crafted and had a hand with each Weasley's name on it, and instead of hours said their location or condition at the time. Harry looked closely at the clock. He knew there were nine Weasleys total, and six of the hands were currently pointing at "Home."

The "Percy Weasley" hand, however, was pointing to a spot where the number 10 would have been, callously marked "Who Cares?" Harry assumed feelings about Percy were still rather heated since the blow-out he'd had with his parents, but the handwriting looked suspiciously like the twins'. And the "William Weasley" hand was on Work, and so was the hand that said "Charles Weasley," although Bill was undoubtedly at work in Egypt and Charlie was working in Romania.

And then Harry noticed something else. There, pointing just a few ticks down from the six "Home" Weasleys was a small, obviously new, brass hand that said, in small golden letters, "Harry Potter."

The "Harry" hand was pointing to a spot that said, "Staring Agape at This Clock Like a Right Prat," which, oddly enough, was exactly what Harry was doing. He'd had always been under the impression that this clock was strictly for the Weasleys. True, it was fascinating to look at, but it was … it was for them. It was in their house, meant to keep track of their lives. It was special, private; a way to connect across time and space. What on earth was his name doing on a clock meant only for family?

And then suddenly it hit him, and … he had no words. He wiped one eye very fast, felt arms around him and turned around, stunned, to look at Mrs. Weasley, who was beaming.

"Do you like it, dear?" she asked.

Harry nodded with a smile. "Yes, very much," he said quietly.

She smiled back at him and turned to admire her handiwork, so pleased that her gift had turned out right. Of course, that lasted only until she read the clock. Her eyes went wide at where Harry's hand was pointing.

"FRED! GEORGE!" she bellowed. "That's not funny!"

The twins got up from the table and scattered, avoiding their mother, laughing themselves sick and yelling, "Happy Sixteen, Harry!"

"You just watch out for Mum!" George laughed, zipping away. "Make sure she doesn't put one of those Muggle homing collars on you!"

"Yeah, look out, mate!" Fred agreed, also snickering and dodging her hand. "She'll be tagging your ears next!"

Everyone laughed at this, even Mrs. Weasley, who huffed to a stop. The twins, seeing their pursuer was exhausted, seized their chance and Apparated away. The Filibuster fireworks fizzled out after an hour, and once clean-up was through, it was time for bed.

The next morning found Harry and Ron out in the front yard, helping Hermione and her staggering amount of luggage into a Ministry taxi. Just as they heaved Hermione's trunk into the boot of the car, Ron commented that the birthday party had been a pretty poor showing. But Harry, who had never had one in his life, or such terrific presents, insisted it was brilliant.

* * *

The Quidditch match was equally brilliant, in Harry's opinion. Ron had managed to get two extraordinarily cheap tickets, and they were on to see the Chudley Cannons play the Balleycastle Bats at Egglestrom Plot, a lovely Quidditch stadium hidden on a moor about half a day's walk from Ottery St. Catchpole.

They set out bright and early the morning of the match, hoping to make it to the stadium by noon and have lunch before the game. Harry was wearing a borrowed orange scarf and carrying a knapsack of food that Mrs. Weasley had packed. Ron was proudly wearing his Cannons cap, and carrying an owl on each shoulder because he insisted that Hedwig needed to appreciate her wizard's sport and Pigwidgeon needed an education, too.

Hedwig fluffed her feathers importantly. Pig twittered. Neither of them looked like they cared very much about Quidditch, but they seemed happy to be having a jaunt, and Harry was not about to spoil Ron's good mood. There was nothing that could spoil Harry's good mood, either. He was very excited about getting to see a live match, even if it wasn't the World Cup.

They reached the stadium early with a few other wizards and witches, some of whom had come from as far away as Follgate, packed inside and made their way to the highest spots they could reach in the stadium, as it wasn't very full. The Cannons had, after all, been in a slump for the past century and a quarter, and since most of the Bats' fanbase was in Northern Ireland, their turnout was pretty small.

All in all, it was a hilarious game. The flying was very fast, if less than spectacular. There were collisions, lots of shouting, some painful Bludger hits, and a few dropped Quaffles. The Cannons' Keeper successfully used the Starfish and Stick maneuver several times, and the Bats' Keeper even attempted the Starfish without Stick, but since he just was the reserve (and apparently a real git), nobody cared. He had to be magicked onto a stretcher and taken away, and some of the fans actually applauded.

All the madness just increased the boys' enthusiasm. They screamed themselves hoarse cheering for the Cannons, who managed to pull their side together and in an hour bring themselves up 70 to 60 over the Bats. That was when their Seeker, Archibald Hornby, spotted the Snitch and took off on his Nimbus 2001 in a burst of sparks. He was leagues ahead of the other Seeker, who was swearing and urging his Comet 260 to catch up, but clearly was not going to make it.

Harry was on his feet immediately, watching and whooping as Hornby streaked by on his broomstick towards the fluttering, whizzing ball … and made the catch. The game was over. The Cannons had won.

Ron completely lost his head. He was soon on his feet with Harry, alternately hugging his friend and jumping up and down, yelling like a maniac with Pig perched precariously on his head and twittering like a huge budgie. (Hedwig had quite sensibly flapped over to perch on Harry.) Both of them cheered and Ron pumped his fists in the air while the owls hooted loudly. Harry let off an enthusiastic whistle. Hornby seemed to notice this and waved at Harry, who waved back before the team left for the changing rooms.

The walk home was no less exciting than the walk there.

"They WON!" Ron exulted, leaping across a puddle and dancing about in the grass. "My team actually WON! Oh, wait 'till I tell Fred and George! They were so insistent the Cannons would eat it, and I said I'd get four tickets just to prove they had a better side this year, and they said they had better things to do. Ha! Joke's on them now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, they'll be so disappointed they didn't come!" Harry said.

He was privately a little glad that the twins had skipped the match, since it would have given them front-row seats to watch Ron and Harry acting like complete fools. However, they were nearing the Burrow (Harry could see Ottery St. Catchpole in the distance), and Ron would soon be able to blurt out the news to the entire house and rub his brothers' twin faces in what they missed.

Harry brushed an owl feather off his jacket and let the autumn breeze play with his messy hair. Hedwig was now perched on his shoulder and Pig was riding on his head, because Ron was way too excited to be trusted with anything sitting on him. Harry was even carrying the knapsack, to be on the safe side.

This had been a summer to remember. For a holiday that had begun so poorly, it was ending remarkably well. In a few days they'd be heading to Diagon Alley to meet up with Hermione and buy books, and soon it would be time to board the Hogwarts Express on September 1st and school would begin again. It was guaranteed to be another year of magic, madness, and mayhem.

Harry could hardly wait.

_FINIS

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I want to take this opportunity to thank everybody who has reviewed, is reviewing, or will review this story. You all rock so hard, the house is fallin' down.

Cheers,

Kiki 8-)


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